


The Tower and Staff

by Sarahshenanigans



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mages and Templars, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8870455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahshenanigans/pseuds/Sarahshenanigans
Summary: Therese joined the Inquisition to exact revenge on the Templars who killed her mother.  Killian joined the Inquisition to preserve some of the oath that he took as a Templar, which his comrades seem to have forgotten.  The only thing the two have in common?  Their enmity toward each other.  Thrust together by circumstance, bound by shared orders, Therese and Killian find themselves on a mission that will challenge everything they thought they knew about the Chantry, and themselves.





	1. Therese

“Did you see that?” the younger of the two Templars asked, his Orlesian accented voice tight. His hand twitched nervously toward the sword belted to his hip as panicked eyes darted to and fro.  
“Louis, if you make me chase another bloody fennec into the brush, I swear to the Maker-“  
“It wasn’t a fennec! Just go look.”  
Louis’s companion rolled his eyes, drew his sword, and advanced toward the wall of thorny bushes behind which Therese crouched, her back pressed into the sheer rock face of a hill. She clutched her staff closer to her chest with white knuckles, trying desperately to recall the spell of invisibility that her mother had taught her. “Damn Orlesians. Scared of their own shadows,” the Templar grumbled. His eyes, despite his annoyance, were focused as he searched the foliage for signs of movement.  
Therese fought the urge to shrink back beneath his scrutiny. Her fear of Templars had emerged somewhat recently, as she had spent the last eighteen months of her life hiding in the ruins of ancient fortresses, abandoned farmhouses, and once even the remains of what she thought must be an Elven temple. For the past couple of months, she’s begun to believe that she might actually be able to build some kind of life for herself in the hills outside Redcliffe, but then the sky had torn open, and the Mage-Templar War had surged and spread, and she found herself fleeing once more.  
Life had been easier in Orlais, before Grand Enchanter Fiona had called for the vote. Before her mother had been killed by Templars shortly after arriving home from said vote. Before she had been forced to escape under cover of night with nothing but her staff and the clothes on her back, and flee into Ferelden. And certainly before the sky had begun raining demons.   
Therese and her mother had made their home on a tiny farm across the river from Sahrnia, in Emprise du Leon. There, they grew vegetables and herbs that they traded in the village, and her mother taught her magic in secret, lest they be discovered. As a child, Therese didn’t know much about her mother’s life before the farm, except that she had been a mage of the Spire, and she didn’t trust the Circle. Later, Imogen had confided in her daughter. She’d had a Templar lover, and when it was discovered that she was pregnant, he had helped her escape. The Knight-Commander at the time had threatened her with Tranquility if she didn’t name the father, and was told that the baby would be sent to Montsimard as soon as possible after birth. Of her father, Therese knew even less. She had inherited his dark hair and blue eyes, though the curl she’d gotten from her mother. She had also inherited her father’s human appearance.   
As a child, Therese had been envious of Imogen’s graceful, pointed ears and large eyes. She would sit on her mother’s lap, pouting, her tiny hands pinching the tips of her own ears as though doing so would change their shape. Imogen would chuckle warmly and take her daughter’s hands in her own. “Be grateful,” she would say, “that you have so many of his features, Da’len. Whenever you look in the mirror, you will see us. You will carry a piece of him, always.”  
They had never had to hide. Not until the day that Imogen received a letter inviting her to attend the vote for Mage independence. Templars had been camped nearby, and followed Imogen as she’d traveled home. The night after her return, they attacked the farmhouse. Therese had barely escaped. Since then, her life had been nothing but trying to outrun a war.   
And now she sat, exhausted and hungry, between a cliff and an angry Templar, praying to the Maker that she would not be seen.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese comes face to face with the templars.

Therese felt the tell-tale prickle of lightning across her palms as the Templar neared. She sucked in a deep breath as quietly as she could, willing the crackling light to dissipate. If the Templar saw the flicker of forming lightning in the bush, she was done for. But her anxiety was too great. The lightning surged, and a wicked sneer spread across the Templar’s pitted face. He reached into the bushes, grasping blindly with a claw-like hand, until he snagged the edge of her cloak. A little further probing, and his hand closed, vice-like, on her upper arm.   
Therese could hear her heart pounding in her ears as he hauled her roughly to her feet. “Look what I found, Louis. Seems you were actually right, this time.”  
Louis’s eyes widened in excitement. “I told you. Always with the disbelief.” Louis took in her terrified form with one long, slow look that curdled her stomach. “She’s a pretty little thing. It’s too bad she’s a mage. I would not want to sully myself with her.”  
“You might not, but I’m not that picky,” the second Templar chuckled darkly and sniffed her hair. Therese flinched.  
“Don’t touch me,” she spat  
“Ooh. Feisty little one. You see this, mage?” Louis patted a vial filled with glowing blue liquid strapped to his belt. Therese gulped. Lyrium. She’d never seen any in person before. But she knew enough about Templars to know that with just a swig of lyrium one could nullify her powers, and she would be entirely helpless. “I do not want to waste this on you, but I will. Now, be a nice little girl and play along for Bran.”  
“Ha,” Therese scoffed and willed her voice not to shake, “You won’t use that for me, even if I fight. Look at you. Dark circles beneath your eyes, sunken cheeks. The way you touch that bottle, it’s like you’re touching a lover. You’re a lyrium addict if I’ve ever seen one. That’s your last philter, right?”  
Louis’s face twisted in rage, “Shut your mouth you little bitch!” He raised his hand and struck her, hard, across the cheek. Therese’s head snapped to the side, her vision darkening, then filling with stars. She felt the sting of lightning arcing across her palm, and clenched her fist. She’d never used magic to kill a man before, but the rage and pain made it a very tempting idea.   
From the corner of her eye, Therese caught a flash of movement behind a tree nearby. Her panic redoubled. Another one? Her eyes darted back to her livid captors. It seemed that neither of them had noticed. She slid her eyes slowly toward the tree, catching a flash of bright red hair and the glowing tip of a staff. The presence of another mage was a minor comfort. They would not hurt her right away, at least. She spat into the dust at Louis’s feet, “Do you want to see if you can down that lyrium before I can unleash my lightning?” She muttered darkly, and allowed the prickling electric current to drift upward, encircling her arm in purple light.   
Bran laughed behind her, his grip tightening painfully. “Seems she wants a challenge. Think we should - “  
A burst of flame caught Louis’s cloak, and he cried out in alarm. “We’re under attack!” He screamed, trying desperately to unlatch his cloak before the fire spread. It was futile, however. This was a mage’s fire, conjured from the Fade, and the heat had already begun to form blisters around the Templar’s neck. Therese froze in shock for just a moment before seizing the opportunity to loose her lightning, sending it arcing up to the gauntleted hand of the oaf who held her. His body went rigid, and she spun away from him, holding her palms outward and using the lightning to hold him in place. With his eyes wide and his mouth agape, he looked startlingly like a fish, she noticed with grim humor. An arrow whistled through the air over her shoulder, landing squarely in the center of Bran’s throat. Therese banished the lightning with a flex of her fingers and watched as he fell to his knees, blood filling his mouth, and stared up at her with wide eyes that dulled as he gargled his final breath.   
Vaguely, she was aware of the sounds of combat behind her, blows landing and grunts of effort as steel met steel. But her attention was fixed on the still form of the templar at her feet. She’d never actually seen a man die up close. She’d witnessed combat between mages and templars from a distance, but she was always gone by the time any fatal blows fell. The sooner she was away, the safer she would be. But this… Bran’s sword arm lay curled beneath him, bent unnaturally. His other hand was still curled as though around her arm. His eyes were fixed as though staring at some far-off spectacle, though she knew they were unseeing. The world around his corpse fell into blackness until he filled her vision. She heard voices around her, two women, two men, but she could not focus on what was being said. She had a feeling that she was being asked a question, but she could not turn her head to see who had addressed her. She could not find her voice, though she knew that her mouth was opening and closing. Bile rose in her throat, and she felt her breathing grow shallow.  
This is death… she thought, before falling to her knees and retching on the ground at the dead templar’s feet. Her head spun as the ground rose up to meet her, and then all the world was black.


	3. Killian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian finds himself suspicious of the Herald, and of the new refugee she's added to their number.

Killian knitted his brows at the cacophony that had erupted in front of him. Just when a wary rhythm had been restored to the ill and wounded here at the crossroads, it seemed that another refugee had been added to their number. “As if we needed one more,” he scoffed. This earned a less than amused glance from the Inquisition scout standing beside him. He fought the urge to flinch under her scrutiny. Letting a little freckle-faced dwarf woman intimidate him. Maker, was he a Templar, or wasn’t he? Killian pursed his lips and sighed when he remembered that, no, he wasn’t a Templar. Not anymore. He was a deserter.   
Across the lane, he watched as the bald elf and the Seeker who travelled with the Herald carried the prone form of a tiny woman toward the row of cots erected for the wounded. From the look on Seeker Penteghast’s face, she was less enthused about this addition than Killian was. Behind them came the Herald, her flame-red hair like a beacon in a stormy sea. Killian wondered if it were possible to magically enhance one’s hair colour. Gasps and whispers travelled through the assembly, rippling across troubled faces alight with speculation until they reached Killian’s ears.  
“A mage? They rescued a rebel?”  
That was when Killian noticed that the Herald carried two staves. One had to be hers, everyone knew she had been an enchanter at Ostwick. The other must have belonged to the woman now lying under the healer’s gentle ministrations. Is she mad? Killian wondered. There was no telling what kind of chaos a rebel mage could bring upon these suffering villagers. She could be a blood mage, an abomination, rogue Templars could have followed them here. They were an unstable lot, the rogue Templars. They’d been known to slaughter innocents with nothing more than suspicion that one could be harboring a mage. If they followed the Herald to the crossroads, how many refugees would die before the Inquisition forces took them down? Unconsciously, Killian’s hand slid to the hilt of his sword, the leather grip warming in his hand afforded a sense of security.   
“Stand down, soldier,” Scout Harding chided from his side. He glanced down into her face, which seemed both amused and stern. How did she manage that? He took his hand from his side and folded his arms defiantly in front of his chest.  
“This bodes ill,” he grumbled.  
“Are you questioning the Herald’s decision?”  
“Aren’t you?”  
“Not my place. I’m just a scout. Besides, I trust her.” Harding turned again to face the Herald, who stood now at the side of the cot, concern evident on her face even from this distance.  
Killian rolled his eyes. Trust her? I didn’t realize that wanting to bed someone meant trust.

Night had fallen, the chaos had died down. Refugees and soldiers alike returned to their duties or settled to sleep long ago. Killian strode quietly between the tents and huts and sleeping forms scattered across the ground. None of the few refugees who were still awake would question another soldier walking the crossroads at night. As long as he tried not to look suspicious, none of the other soldiers would, either. He approached the healer’s hut with purpose, eyes narrowed, ears tuned to any disturbance in the darkness. Part of him wanted to curse his own paranoia, feeling foolish for being on high alert. But he also understood the need for caution. No one understood what the mages and Templars were capable of better than someone who’d lived among them.   
That was the reason he wandered alone this night. He knew that he had no place to question the Herald’s motives, but, truly, he thought she was insane. How dare she bring a rebel mage into their midst? How could she- he paused his furious musings when he realized the woman he’d seen earlier was probably an old friend of hers from Ostwick. The thought made him almost sick to his stomach. That she would be willing to risk the lives of so many for the sake of one power-crazed abomination, and still be referred to as the chosen hero of Andraste… Killian set his face in grim determination and rounded the corner of the healer’s hut, then stopped dead in his tracks.  
“As soon as she comes to, fetch me. Allow entry to no one but myself and the healer. Do you understand?”  
“Yes, Your Worship.” replied the guard. Killian knit his brow in frustration. ‘She’s set a guard.’ he sighed. ‘This will make interrogation a bit more complicated.’


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian takes it upon himself to "save" the refugees from the apostate prisoner.

Therese rolled onto her back on the cot and sighed. There was a crossbar pressed into the small of her back, the hut smelled cloyingly of elfroot, and the groans of injured soldiers outside had begun to make her head ache. Despite her earlier fainting spell, sleep now eluded her. Her limbs felt heavy, her stomach felt as though it were twisting in on itself incessantly, and her mind raced.  
Where was she? And why did that woman outside want to see her? They’d posted a guard at her door, but to what end? To protect her, or to keep her cloistered inside should she inevitably prove to be an abomination? Therese shook her head, then cringed when the movement caused the dull ache to increase in severity. She took a deep breath and waited for the pain to lessen before she turned slowly to look to one side and take in her surroundings again through the darkness. A faint, flickering light from outside lit an open window, and cast the front of the room into shadow; it also cast a square of light on the wall above Therese’s head. Beside her was another cot, empty, and beyond that was the shape of what she thought must be a worktable. Lumpy shadows were scattered across its surface.  
A healer’s hut, surely, but where? Slowly she raised herself onto her elbows, taking pains to be as quiet as possible. The less noise she created, the less likely it was that her guard would think her awake and summon whoever that woman had been. From her limited view through the window she could make out the lights of torches fastened to three other huts, and a campfire beside which sat a large iron cauldron.  
A shuffling noise from outside the hut made her jump, and she dropped herself onto the cot a bit more quickly than she intended. The wooden frame creaked beneath her weight. She snapped her eyes closed and slowed her breathing as a shadow crossed over the light. Silence followed, but in her mind, she was screaming.  
After a beat, a muffled grunt and thud came from near the door, followed by the creak of a door handle. Therese’s breath caught in her throat, but she prepared to defend herself. Of course it was silly of her to assume that the Templars from earlier had been alone. She must have been followed by their comrades. A flicker of flame sparked to life in her palm.  
The door handle rattled and a shaft of light cut into the dark solitude of the hut, a column of light creeping up the blankets to her chin. Therese eased one eye open, catching a glimpse of firelight on the sheen of a blade before the door slid closed quietly, and she was once again shrouded in darkness. She bit her lip, willing the flame to blaze a little brighter in her hand, and then she would launch it at the intruder.  
“Consider carefully, mage,” a deep voice rumbled from near the wall, the tone clearly speaking of contempt.  
“I have,” Therese muttered, and released the fire. It blazed white-hot about a foot from her outstretched hand, then sputtered and died.  
Therese bit back a cry of dismay and shot upright in the cot, ignoring the pain in her head and stomach. The man before her, tall and broad and blazingly angry, smirked slyly. “Have you now?”  
He rushed forward suddenly, and before Therese could blink, the cold steel of his blade bit the tender skin at her throat.”Where are the rebels camped?”  
Therese swallowed hard against the sword, but kept her eyes firmly on the man, “I have no idea. I’m not with the rebels.”  
He scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer, “Lies. I will not ask again, abomination.”  
“Why do you assume that I am an abomination?”  
The man snarled quietly and increased the pressure against her neck. She hissed a breath in through her teeth as the blade pricked her flesh.  
“With the Veil torn open and no Templars, you expect me to believe otherwise?”  
“There are Templars everywhere, in case you hadn’t noticed.”  
The man grabbed a fistful of Therese’s hair and tugged sharply, snapping her head back painfully. A cry burst forth from her mouth.  
“Why else would you deceive the Herald into bringing you here?”  
“The… Herald?” Therese whispered, her brows furrowing. “The Herald of Andraste brought me here?” Therese had always kept her distance from any Inquisition soldiers or scouts she’d come upon, but she’d seen them clearing the rebel mages from the area. She was sure they would have assumed that she was with the rebels and killed her on sight. The fact that she was still alive seemed impossible. Her eyes widened, “But I am an apostate…”  
The man’s brows furrowed momentarily, perplexity crossing his face for an instant. He quickly regained his composure, cold fury sank into his eyes. This quiet anger was somehow more terrifying. “Yes. You are. The first one that the Herald has captured, too. I imagine she’ll want to interrogate you. Shall I fetch her?”  
Therese’s eyes widened, her blood pounding in her ears. All this time running, and now she would be pressed for information she did not have and likely killed. She was not naive enough to imagine they would believe her declarations of innocence. The man smirked cruelly, pressing the blade a little harder against her skin. She felt a trickle of blood creep down her neck. “Or, if you like, I can provide you an end now. Save you the suffering of torture.”  
Therese swallowed hard against the blade, her mind racing. Surely there was some way to escape, but how? A muted groan sounded from beneath the window where the unconscious guard lay, and her captor turned in alarm toward the sound. Therese noticed a sword surrounded by flame emblazoned on the breastplate of the man’s armor as it caught the flickering light. Anger surged in her, and she felt the searing heat of it boil in her blood. She’d heard, of course, that there were some former Templars among the Inquisition’s ranks. But if this man was loyal, why would he be here, threatening someone who would be needed for interrogation? She doubted very much, suddenly, that this man was part of the Inquisition at all. She felt heat building in her hand, and used the ferocity of her anger and fear to give her energy.  
“Or I could save the Inquisition the trouble of taking care of the rogue Templar in their camp,” she sneered, and lifted her arm, bearing an orb of flame, before his face.  
The two locked eyes tensely, each evaluating the likely outcome of taking the first strike, when the pounding of running feet came to a halt outside the door. It slammed open, startling Therese and her captor. The silhouetted form of the Herald of Andraste, her anger palpable, loomed in the doorway.  
“That’s enough!”


	5. Interlude 1: Swordplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of my fluffy interludes with Commander Cullen and my Travelyan. Some of these will just be fluff, some of them will advance the plot.

Ronnie Travelyan wearily scrubbed a trickle of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and sighed. She’d known that learning swordsmanship would be difficult, but she’d never imagined the level of exhaustion she’d feel as a result. She was determined, however. She would not back down after having to convince Commander Cullen to train her in the first place. She thought back on the encounter as she lifted a waterskin to her lips and drank deeply.  
She’d approached Cullen as he shouted drills at the recruits, and watched with fascination as he’d caught a recruit in the back whose shield was just a fraction too low.  
“You there! There’s a shield in your hand, block with it! If this man were your enemy, you’d be dead!”  
As he turned to give instruction to his lieutenant, he spotted a flash of red hair, and Ronnie knitted her brow in puzzlement as he tensed. Trepidation swelled behind her ribs at the tight-lipped expression on Cullen’s face. She swallowed hard and approached.  
“Good morning, Commander.”  
“Lady Travelyan,” he nodded stiffly.  
Ronnie shuffled, suddenly nervous. She’d yet to figure out her dynamic with the Commander. While she’d developed a pleasant enough working relationship with Josephine and Leliana, and even Cassandra, Cullen seemed to rotate through varying degrees of friendly banter, awkward flirtation, and discomfort. It didn’t help that she felt drawn to him like she’d never felt drawn to anyone before. In fact, prior to meeting him, she wasn’t sure it was possible. She swallowed her nerves and cleared her throat.  
“If this is a bad time, I can-”  
“No! Maker,” he rubbed the back of his neck a spray of pink blooming on his cheeks, “I.. no, this is fine. What did you need, Lady Travelyan?”  
He turned his golden eyes to hers, and the nerves that she had been trying to suppress came fluttering back to life deep in her belly. “I… I had just been thinking… Well I’m headed to the Hinterlands soon and I’ll be facing Templars, you know, and I just thought that it might be useful to learn some swordplay, just in case they…” she chuckled lightly, “I’m rambling, sorry.”  
Cullen’s lip lifted slightly in a crooked smirk that stretched the scar over his mouth, then cleared his throat, training his face into a mask of professionalism an instant later. The brief smile had been enough, however, to quicken Ronnie’s pulse. “Of course, my lady. I’d be happy to help.”  
Before she, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas had left for the Hinterlands, Ronnie had learned enough swordplay to hold her own against a Templar distracted by a hail of arrows and magic, though not without backup from the Seeker. Still, it had been enough to see her through a narrow scrape when she’d faced a Templar with smuggled Lyrium on his belt. Upon her return to Haven, she’d worked harder than ever, determined that she not need to rely on her comrades to defend her during hand-to-hand combat. Today, though, Cullen seemed to be taking it easy on her. He struck with less ferocity, did not correct her when she knew her grip on the blade was wrong, and left himself open in a move that not even the greenest of his recruits would have pulled. She was beginning to get frustrated.  
Ronnie rolled her shoulders and lowered herself into a ready stance, watching the Commander with narrowed eyes as he circled. The sun painted the sky a brilliant vermillion as it ducked behind the Frostbacks, and Cullen’s sword glinted red, as though covered in blood. His was a wide, intimidating silhouette, armour-clad and fierce with his fur-lined cloak about his shoulders, every inch the noble leader. She had seen him spar with Cassandra, she knew the strength that lay in his powerful frame. Almost as soon as the thought entered her mind, she taunted, “Don’t worry, Commander. I won’t break.”  
Quick as lightning, he struck, steel ringing on steel as he knocked her blade aside. She stumbled backward, her left foot sliding in the dust. She raised the blade again to parry another brutal thrust, just in time. Panic flared in her chest as she noted the change in his visage. Haunted and furious, he spun and lunged, knocking her blade from her grip and swung out a leg to knock hers out from under her. She landed hard, a strangled cry bursting forth as her leg twisted beneath her. “I yield!” she panted.  
Fury melted into horror in the Commander’s eyes as he realized what he’d done. His sword clattered to the ground as though from numb fingers, and he turned his face away, chagrined. Ronnie breathed hard, watching with wide eyes that she knew looked more frightened than she felt. She opened her mouth to tell him that he needn’t worry, she wasn’t badly hurt, when he muttered hoarsely, “That’s… enough for today.” He spun on his heel and quickly marched away.

Night had settled over Haven, hushing the bustle of an army camp, bursting at the seams. Light conversation from the direction of the Chantry, the occasional burst of bawdy laughter from the tavern, and the soft hush of the breeze through evergreen boughs drifted on the cool air. Ronnie sat, her knees against her chest, on the roof of her quarters, and stared up at the crystal sky. She’d replayed the evening’s events over and over in her mind, but couldn’t account for Cullen’s sudden change in demeanor. She rested her chin on her knees and sighed.  
Beneath her she heard a muffled thud and a quiet curse. She knitted her brows, trying and failing to convince herself that it was just a soldier, making the rounds of their night watch, and nothing to be worried about. But she found herself rocking forward, uncoiling herself like a spring, to rest on her haunches. A small ball of flame flared to life in her palm as the shuffling sounds increased in volume. Someone was certainly scrabbling up the side of the building. Her brows drew together over her eyes as she prepared to launch the flame at the intruder. But the light in her hand illuminated his face when she leaned over the edge of the roof, and a familiar voice hissed “Maker!” The fire sputtered and died as her eyes widened.  
“Commander!” she gasped, and rocked backward into a sitting position as he lifted himself onto the roof beside her. His cloak was draped across his shoulders, but he was notably without armour. He looked smaller, less imposing, but no less powerful.  
“Forgive me for startling you, Lady Travelyan, I just came to…” he paused, his hands raking through blond curls, “I came to apologize. My behaviour this afternoon was deplorable. It is inexcusable.”  
Ronnie stared, open-mouthed, at the Commander. He looked so concerned, shame stamped across his features like a brand. He looked tired. She inhaled deeply and looked down at her fists, balled in her lap. “Commander, there’s no need. I provoked you, and I was not seriously hurt.”  
"But I could have… Maker. It was the thought of you hurt… It made me angry,” He sighed and closed his eyes, “I could never have forgiven myself if I’d hurt you.”  
Something in his voice sent a sharp pang through Ronnie’s chest, and her breath caught. She bit the tip of her tongue gently as she watched him. The wind ruffled the pale mane of his hair, and the snow that fluttered sparsely down around them had made the tip of his nose and his high cheeks turn a soft pink in the dim light of torches on the ground.  
“My name is Ronald,” she whispered, smiling softly as his eyes fluttered open and he looked at her questioningly.  
“What?”  
“My father made a match for my oldest sister with a family that was known for producing mages. Great Aunt Lucille was furious, so she disinherited him. Years later, she sent a letter saying that she would write him back into her will on the condition that they name their next child, me, after her favourite dog.”  
“That’s horrible,” Cullen muttered, suppressed amusement colouring his tone.  
“Oh yes. I’m just glad that she died before seeing her precious niece sent to the Circle,” she chuckled softly and toyed with a loose thread in the sleeve of her tunic.  
“So did they call you Ronald in Ostwick?”  
“No, they called me Ellen.” She smirked at Cullen’s confusion. “Ellen is my middle name. My parents didn’t want anyone knowing that they had a child with magic, so they made a sizeable… donation to the Circle in exchange for their discretion.”  
“I see,” he mused flatly, “So, which do you prefer? Ellen or Ronald?” He wrinkled his nose comically at her given name. Ronnie laughed appropriately.  
“Neither. Call me Ronnie. We’re going to be working together quite closely, and I’ve never been ‘Lady Travelyan.’ I never will be.”  
The pink on Cullen’s cheeks darkened, and Ronnie thrilled at the idea that, this time, it wasn’t because of the cold.  
“Then you must call me Cullen.”  
“Very well. Cullen.” The grin that spread across Cullen’s face at the sound of his name on her lips would remain imprinted in her memory forever.


End file.
